Can O' Whup-Ass

Dear Mike Penner

When you wrote that heart-breaking, brave article about your decision, as a sports writer for the LA Times, to send back your kielbasa for the clam dish (and asked that everyone refer to you as "Christine"), we were in your corner. You handled it with more humor and good grace than we could fathom.

When you decided you'd had enough of Christine (and her split ends) and were returning to Mike Penner, we had fun at your expense. We said that unless you're Mr. Potato Head, genetalia are not easily interchangeable. We also urged you to pick a gender and stick with it. This ain't a game of musical chairs, we chortled.

And now. Now you decided to kill yourself.

Goddammit, Mike.

We curse the demons that tormented you. We feel shame for making light of your game of "pin the tail on the gender."

You didn't have to do this. You were loved, regardless of what you packed 'neath your underoos.

So now, as you stand naked before your maker, vulnerable (liberated?), ask Him what He intended. Did he aim to make a Mike or was he really going for a Christine? And know, down here on this mortal coil, it didn't matter a damn whether you had an "innie" or an "outie."  You were a member of the family of man. A being of value and beauty. 

Would that we could have made you feel more welcome in your skin. And that you were able to love yourself for the fabulous creature you were.

Sleep tight, bitch. You better work.

xox
WAM

The "12 Days of Christmas" Project

Just as found footage documented the unfortunate demise of three obnoxious film students in "The Blair Witch Project," our demented band of covert ninja spies has discovered a diary of pure Christmas terror to rival the icy dread of Baby Party. Found in a blood-stained apartment in Manhattan's Turtle Bay, the following journal documents a diabolical series of Christmas tribulations that haven't been seen since Wal-mart ran out of Tickle-Me Elmos. Below, witness the terror of the most dastardly acts of Yule Tide treachery ever recorded. Read at your own peril:

Day 1: Dear Diary, what a wonderful evening. My true love (I can call him that now that he tested negative of all major STD's), treated me to an evening so romantic! Opera and a carriage ride. I'll remember it forever. At the end of our date he had me cover my eyes for a "surprise." I was certain he was going to give me a cruise to Aruba and a new pair of Uggs (I've only been dropping hints for six months now, LOL). Instead, he presented me with an odd looking bird and a fruit plant. I was disappointed not to have my new Uggs, but he swears there's more where that came from. What a darling he is!!

Day 2: Dear Diary, I had a lovely evening playing putt-putt with my true love, after which he gave me a gift of two pigeons and another one of those odd looking birds in a fruit tree. I suspect he's over-estimated my fondness for birds. Yet again, he swore there were more gifts in store. Come on, cruise to Aruba! Mamma wants a new pair of Uggs!!

Day 3: Dear Diary, had surf and turf at the Olive Garden with my TL. It was nice enough, although my salad was slightly wilted. After sharing a rather too rich chocolate torte, he had the waiters bring out three chickens. He said they were French, but a chicken is a chicken is a chicken, in my book. Then he gave me two more pigeons and yet another odd looking bird in a tree. I told him I loved the birds but they're starting to poop on my furniture. And I have more pears than I know what to do with. I want a cruise to Aruba. And some Uggs. Quit playing games, dude.

Day 4: Dear Diary, saw the new Sandra Bullock movie with TL. It was boring. I hate Sandra Bullock. She looks trashy. Any-who, TL gave me four new birds that won't shut up, three more French chickens, two more pigeons and ANOTHER retarded bird sitting on a fruit plant. Maybe he's joking. Maybe he's toying with me. I have a headache.

Day 5: Dear Diary, TL took me to a tractor-pull in Scranton. Hated it. Afterwards, sensing my foul mood, he gave me five beautiful 24 carat gold pinky rings! From Cartier! I love them! Then he had to spoil it by giving me four more chatty-cathy birds, three more frog hens, two additional pigeons and ANOTHER retarded fruit bird. My kitty cat Mr. Purr-fect Pants is acting nervous. Where are my f*cking Uggs?

Day 6: Dear Diary, what's-his-name cooked manwhiches and we ate them while watching CSI Miami (is it just me or is David Caruso really creepy?). During the commercial break he gave me six gooses. When I screamed in horror, they all pooped eggs onto my Martha Stewart "floral explosion" area rug. Noticing my displeasure, he promptly gave me another five gold pinky rings (how many pinkies does he think I have?), four additional loud-mouth birds, three smelly-ass French chickens, two more pigeons and another goddamned retarded bird in a fruit tree. Is he aware that my lease only allows one cat or one dog?? I think he sensed my displeasure, because he promised his gifts are going to get better. I want to go to Aruba. I want some Uggs. Now.

Day 7: Hey Diary. Okay so today we split a chalupa and played ping-pong. When he brought me home at the end of our date, I was shocked to find seven f*cking swans in my bath tub. Besides the swans, I now have twelve excitable geese, fifteen gold rings, fourteen of those loud-ass birds (two of them were decapitated when they flew into my ceiling fan), five of those snotty french chickens (I sold ten to my local butcher), nine pigeons (Mr. Purr-fect Pants has killed three) and seven asshole partridges sitting in seven fruit trees. I've had to hire stanley steamers twice this week. I found bird poop in my cheerios this morning. I'm never going to Aruba. Jesus, why can't a nice girl like me just get a new pair of Uggs for your birthday? I've decided I'm going to break up with TL tomorrow. He's working my nerves.

Day 8: Yo Diary. Went to the mall and had a small Orange Julius with TL. I told him it wasn't working out, that I needed some space. He just smiled and said I'm going to need even more space soon. I called him a butt-wipe and ran home, only to find eight farm bitches milking goats in my kitchen. There are now twelve swans in my bath tub. I have eighteen geese laying eggs in my living room. Twenty f*cking pinky rings. Seventeen loud-ass birds (one of those goat bitches killed one when it was squawking on her milk stool and she sat on it), six french chickens (last night I had a hankering for McNuggets), eleven goddamned pigeons and eight asshole partridges on eight ass-licking fruit plants. Why is he doing this to me? I've decided to call my friend Patsy who works at the Police precinct and run a background check on TL. I think he might be mental.

Day 9: Dairy. Wassup. Bad day. Came home from work today to find an eviction notice on my door. Went to hang up my coat and there were nine bitches in my closet doing the macarena. Almost gave me a heart attack. There are now sixteen milk whores in my kitchen surrounded by a growing pile of goat poo. I have twenty-one swans in my crapper, two-dozen geese laying eggs all over my new couch, twenty-five pinky rings, and twenty chatty-cathy birds. The butcher took all but one of the french chickens today, but I now have fourteen pigeons (although I've taken up training them to be carriers, it's more fun than sudoku), and eight partridges in pear trees (turns out partridge fricassee tastes good on toast). Oh and Patsy from the precinct said that TL has done this before. Many times. Two of his exes committed suicide. One became a nun and nine formed their own Roller Derby team in Tuscaloosa. It's all to much to cope with. P.S. I made a quiche tonight using goat milk, goose eggs and pears. Wasn't half bad. I want my Uggs.

Day 10: Oh yeah. Diary. You again. Here's the latest count: eighteen whores doing the macarena in my hall closet. Two dozen goat-milking sluts in my kitchen. Twenty-six swans in my loo (I traded two of them to a budding taxidermist friend for a bottle of Frangelico). Twenty-eight geese in my living room (the goat sluts cooked two of them for dinner last night). Four hundred goose eggs in my refrigerator. Thirty pinky rings. Two dozen calling birds (I wish they're shut their yaps). Zero french chickens (I promised butcher three more tomorrow), sixteen pigeons (ten of which show real promise for carrying notes, it's even more fun than texting), and ten f*cking partridges and ten asshole pear trees. Oh, and I now have ten dudes in tights jumping and prancing about in my bedroom like a bunch of homos. Good times. On the upside, Whole Foods put in an order for 100 goat milk, goose egg and pear quiches. And I'm selling them for 10 bucks a pop! Ker-ching!! Come on, Aruba! Woooo!!!

Day 11: Yo Diary, bitch. When I was getting ready to head to work, TL texted me and said "carpools are car-cool!" I went out to find eleven stinky dudes playing panpipes in my Prius. When I got home there were twenty-seven macarena sluts mounting an assault against the thirty-two milk whores while twenty leaping homos were having an ass-sex orgy on my tempurpedic bed. There are thirty-four geese in my living room, 600 goose eggs in my fridge, thirty five Cartier pinky rings, and twenty-eight calling birds (I hate them). On the bright side, butcher took every french hen and my pigeons have been old-style spamming every bakery on the east coast, and orders for my goat milk, goose egg and pear quiches are going through the roof! I can't find my kitty cat Mr. Purr-fect Pants anywhere. Hope he's okay.

Day 12: Diary. Dude. Worst. Day. Ever. It started off well enough, when I pawned my forty cartier pinky rings for a pair of Uggs and a cruise to Aruba. It quickly went downhill from there. Twelve dudes playing bongos are taking turns date-raping the thirty-six macarena whores while forty milk sluts have gone on the warpath against the thirty leaping homos who stole the goats for a bestiality orgy in my bedroom (note to self, buy new sheets). The swans gave bird flu to the geese and butcher is suing me because the french hens gave his customers salmonella. I was arrested on charges of animal cruelty (I thought killing the partridges in the microwave was merciful and instantaneous, swear to God), hiring non-documented workers (I never paid those milk whores a cent), running a prostitution ring (who knew the macarena sluts were whoring themselves?), creating a nuisance to public health (turns out most of my goat milk/goose egg/pear quiches were infected with e coli by all that goat poop, resulting in the deaths of three people in Buffalo), and harboring known terrorists, as thirteen of the twenty-two dudes playing panpipes in my prius trained with Al Qaeda in Pakistan. My carrier pigeons (apparently they're actually "turtle doves," whoop-de-friggin-do) were all sucked into the engine of a 747, causing 257 people to perish in a gruesome, cartwheeling ball of fire. But as serendipity would have it, my true love was on board, intent on hijacking the plane to Aruba with bombs in his Uggs.   

xox
WAM

Jesus sez: "It is more blessed to give than receive, but it's freakin BITCHIN to subscribe to this blog's feed."

Ask Aunt Betsy: Yahtzee-Yahtzee-Yahtzee!!

Well howdy-dowdy-doodle-all-day! Goodness, it's been a LONG time since I, America's most socially irresponsible advice columnist , sat down at my formica-and-naugahyde "house beautiful" dinette set, seasonably festooned with a turquoise and mauve butter-churn-and-cornucopia-themed table cloth. You've missed me desperately.

Truth be told, I spent the better part of the summer indisposed due to an unfortunate procedural hiccup in our broken legal system. It all started when my communist homosexual neighbors Lance and Bruce threw a distasteful "come dressed as Farrah" game night. To hear them tell it, after a rousing Scattergories match, the party moved to the front lawn for a spirited round of badminton. I needn't tell you how alarming it is to glance out one's picture window to see a dozen middle aged men in blond Jill Munro wigs swatting at a shuttlecock. From my vantage point it looked exactly like a satanic human sacrifice ritual, so I did what any responsible citizen would do. I got behind the wheel of my Chevrolet Impala, crashed through the dividing fence, floored the accelerator and mowed through the assembled coven of demonic succubi. When I realized my mistake, I tried to make peace with the surviving cross-dressers by offering a delectable batch of left-over ferret sausage (note to self: call your niece Jeannie).

It was all to no avail, and despite more than adequate legal representation by my ex brother-in-law Fingers Romano, the Jesus-hating Judge Schlomo Lipschitz found it necessary to send yours truly to a drab upstate women's facility for sixty days. My incarceration was uneventful, save for one unpleasant incident where your own Aunt Betsy had to shank a ho for ridiculing my needlepoint depiction of Jesus gunning down an abortionist with a double action semi-automatic ruger.

Since my release two weeks ago, I've scarcely had time to catch my breath! I just returned from the Grand National Team Yahtzee Tournament held in dazzling Craters-of-the-Moon Idaho. It was a real nail-biter this year; it came down to our own team (the Greater Headcheese Holy Rollers) against the formidable Tuscaloosa Pit Vipers. Wouldn't you just know it? Lorna Fink (a Pit Viper) rolled an unlikely all-sixes four of a kind, necessitating a rather brutal Yahtzee tournament rules tie-breaking knife fight. The Holy Rollers were victorious (as we always are), and Lorna Fink should be back on solids by spring.

All this has gotten Aunt Betsy to thinking: since at least one in ten of the letters I receive from desperate advice seekers is Yahtzee-related, I've decided it's high time to devote another column to all things Yahtzee. So let's dive right on in, shall we?

Dear Aunt Betsy: Last week I had some friends over for a friendly game of strip Yahtzee. Long story short, I lost. And after my fifth jello shot I ended up being ravaged by the victors in a sordid three-way. Well, my boyfriend found out so I decided to falsely claim I was raped. Now I'm facing jail time! I'm afraid of jail! I hear those hardened lesbian jail birds play Yahtzee the hard way! How do prison Yahtzee rules differ from regulation Yahtzee rules? Signed All My Boyfriends Endure Rashes

Dear AMBER: Prison-rules Yahtzee differs from regulation Yahtzee only in its attitudes towards the unholy practice of lesbian strap-on sex. While regulation Yahtzee frowns upon engaging in lesbian strap-on sex every time someone rolls a Yahtzee, prison-rules Yahtzee is significantly more lax in that regard.

Dear Aunt Betsy: I was playing Yahtzee with friends and I rolled three Yahtzees in a row. When I claimed I could use my additional Yahtzees as jokers in the upper section, my friend Mark started acting all shouty and my husband Reuben told him to hush. Long story short, Reuben got stabbed to death. The stabby guy has a point, however. In my new Yahtzee set, the rules state plainly that additional Yahtzees can be used as upper section jokers, while older versions expressly forbid this practice as a vile desecration of all things Yahtzee. What is your position on the issue? Signed Why Is Dice Obsession Weird

Dear WIDOW: It pushes the boundaries of good taste to roll more than two Yahtzees in a given game. It suggests the presence of witchcraft, frankly, and last time a member of my Yahtzee league (Mavis Bile) rolled three Yahtzees in a row I quickly recited my favorite passage from Deuteronomy and doused her with some Raspberry Snapple (the closest thing to holy water on-hand), causing the beelzebub-worshiping strumpet to sprout bat wings and fly around my living room until we beat her to death with a fire poker and a swiffer handle. Suffice it to say, had you refrained from excessive yahtzee-rolling, your husband would currently be on the couch instead of in an urn on the mantle.

Dear Aunt Betsy: Me and my biker buddies are havin' our third annual anti-domestic-violence Yahtzee run! What do you say you park your fanny on my bitch seat and ride my hog to Yahtzee bliss? Signed Sit In Super Sidecar, Y'hear?

Dear SISSY: Your poor wife. She sits at home eating cheezits and watching Lost whilst you fart about on your motorbike playing Yahtzee! To my mind, domestic violence is highly under-rated these days. Families do so few activities together as it is. Save your marriage. Ride your hog home slap the missus around until she rolls a Yahtzee.

Dear Aunt Betsy: Every time you say "Yahtzee" it cracks me up cause that's what I say every time I spank my pants worm until it spits sin batter at the ceiling. Signed OH REALLY, EVEN I'D LIKE LICKING YOU

Dear OREILLY: My late husband Cecil used to scream "Yahtzee" during coital climax. He met an unfortunate and not-entirely-unrelated end in a peculiar bath-time incident involving a blender set to "puree"

xox
WAM

Aunt Betsy sez: "Prison-rules Yahtzee and this blog's feed have many things in common, not the least of which is a spectacularly imprudent lack of decency."

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Lady Gaga

Um...Lady?

Ms. Gaga?

Hi. May we call you Ga? Why are you staring at us? Is that a "no"?

So, what do you say we hop the next spaceship to Planet Claire and order a pitcher of Supernovatinis? Or we could just go to TGI Friday's and slam back some fuzzy navels...same diff, really. Doesn't that just sound marvy? We KNOW!

Listen. Here's the deal. You're a serious broad. And we've resisted writing this BNoFC because you're fully aware (indeed, you're the architect) of your craziocity. And anyone who ridicules your LSD-inspired wardrobe is woefully UNaware that the joke is on them. You are begging to be talked about. You frequently leave the house having remembered to bobby-pin a Judy Jetson wig to your noggin, yet somehow you always forget the pants. Beyond that, while we rather enjoyed the rumors that you serve your hair pie with a side of kielbasa, we also strongly suspect you were the one behind that particular meme. You are, as our Beantown friends might say, "wicked smaht."

We've been tempted to drop you a note before. Especially that one time, whilst performing, you confined your breasts (whom we've fondly dubbed Etna and Vesuvius) to a maximum security brassiere and they rebelled by erupting. The point being while fashion has never been about comfort, it shouldn't incinerate your fans in a  pyroclastic flow.  But no, we held our tongue. Because any gal whose boobs are wont to spew magma and embarks on a career as a disco diva (instead of, say, an X-man), has spunk in our book. Besides, any concert during which a performer zaps her frankenboobs to life is well worth the ticket price.

But now, Lay-Ga...now we're concerned for your mental health. How we wish we could have read your mind today when you stood before your vast wardrobe. We're more than a little curious about the thought process that caused you to strap a JC Penney's "naughty grandma" underwire bra over your Mary Poppins blouse, hike up a pair of crotchless satin Depends, and secure a Charo wig to your noggin with what appears to be the wrapper from a Hickory Farms "deepest sympathy" cheese and fruit basket. 

We're certain it seemed like a good idea at the time. But you look like you're attending the funeral of your sanity. See here's the thing. You're a trend-setter. Do you really want the entire world to start wearing their underoos as outerwear? Have you given the slightest thought to the potential ramifications? For starters, it would force us to cover our furniture in plastic. Is that what you really want?

You look like (pick one):

1. Morgan Fairchild in a very special Lifetime movie-of-the-week called "Not Without My Mom-jeans," the heart warming story of a woman who goes into mourning when The Gap discontinues their line of high-waisted acid wash stretch pants
2. The winning design from that episode of Project Runway where Heidi Klum gives the designers one day to stitch together a wardrobe for the soon-to-hit-the-toy-stores Bi-Polar Barbie
3. A publicity still from "I Was an Incontinent Space Widow," a daring independent film directed by Darren Aronofsky and starring Charlize Theron, which swept the awards at Sundance
4. That long lost episode of Love Boat, wherein cruise director Julie McCoy spikes the punch with ecstasy causing Charo to hurl herself overboard, whereupon her distraught lesbian lover Donna Mills disrupts a shuffleboard tournament with her shocking announcement that her girdle's been possessed by beelzebub.  
5. Bloody hell.

xox
WAM

Lady Ga-Ga sez: "I got so wrapped up in my subscription to this blog's feed, I forgot to put on a skirt."

Vi Blattner's Wild Ride: A Totally True Story

As devoted readers recall, our retarded childhood was set in a lovely mountain town. Think "Stand by Me" without Kiefer Sutherland or train tracks (albeit leeches played an unfortunate cameo). We were lucky enough to live within walking distance to Wilmot Elementary. In high school, we drove. In the three intervening years, however, we took the bus to Evergreen Junior High (go, Rams! Wooo!).

To set the cultural stage for you, Foreigner and Boston were relevant, "Barracuda" was our fave song, and our friends were raving about a new flick our folks would never allow us to see because of its "R" rating, but it seemed to be about Vinnie Barbarino prancing about to the Bee-Gees (whom we loathed), so it sounded like a colossal bore and who cared anyway? 

Evergreen Junior High started the school day at the obscene hour of 7:15 a.m. and we were at the beginning of the bus route. That meant, for three torturous years, we waited in the dark at the end of a long dirt driveway, shivering in a snow drift at 6 a.m. When the headlights came down the hill and raced past the frozen pond, we were always struck with a mixture of relief and anxiety. On one hand, we could look forward to regaining the feeling in our toes by the time we shuffled into algebra. On the other, our stomach knotted in anticipation of the harrowing hour-and-ten-minute ride that lay before us, courtesy of a spectacularly reckless bus driver named Violet "Vi" Blattner.

We always heard the bus before we saw it; Vi never quite got the hang of the clutch, and the demonic echo of grinding gears always preceded her.

Vi Blattner was a tiny, withered woman who kept her hair dyed jet black and ruthlessly sprayed into an Ethel Mertz bob. She was blind as a bat and wore thick, rhinestone encrusted cat-eye glasses. She always had a lipstick-smeared Pall Mall parked twixt her quivering lips (back when people could spark up a butt in an operating room), and was constantly sliding open her window to flick her ash into the predawn blackness. She had a guttural, smoke-ravaged voice that was somewhere between Harvey Fierstein and a post-possession Linda Blair.

The first thing one noticed about Vi was her profound nervousness. Her bony hands shook so badly she had to fight to keep them on the steering wheel. Years of dodging spitballs while piloting a bus down twisting, ice-covered roads had reduced the poor dear to a tangled mess of tics and twitches, and one had the distinct feeling she was barely held together by nicotine, caffeine and scotch tape. She always had more lipstick on her teeth than on her lips and had a very short fuse.

Just as morons amuse themselves by tacking"in bed" to the end of fortune cookie bon-mots, Vi was wont to add "or I'll give you a D-form!" to the end of every sentence she croaked. "Sit down or I'll give you a D-form!" or "Have a nice day or I'll give you a D-form!" or "Mike Bradley, put that back in your pants or I'll give you a D-form!" We never knew exactly what a D-form was, but we were rather certain we didn't want to be issued anything by Vi Blattner. 

But what made Vi Blattner truly memorable was her driving. She would maneuver that bus down steep mountain hills, careening through canyons, skidding through 20-mile-an-hour zones at fifty. She negotiated pine trees, wayward elk, and hairpin curves with the stomach-twisting agility of a master Jedi.

Chevette Dillon was the first to get on the bus, we were second. Then Scott Stewart, Ned Radinsky, Mike Bradley and so on, zipping through thirty-five stops, finally ending with Debbie Durst, a profoundly unfortunate girl cursed with severe acne and epilepsy. In fact, during one of Debbie Durst's frequent and tiresome seizures, someone remarked that she was actually doing an impression of Vi Blattner.  We all found it terribly witty (kids are monsters).

By the time we skidded to a stop in front of Evergreen Junior High, we filed from the bus like a bunch traumatized Titanic passengers stumbling out of a lifeboat. We knew we'd barely cheated death, and could very easily have ended the morning as frozen kid-cicles at the bottom of Evergreen Lake, just like those chilly moppets in "The Sweet Hereafter."

We never saw Vi Blattner issue a D-form. We were far better-behaved than any reasonable person can expect from cranky, sleepy twelve-year-olds. The reason is simple; in this era that predated seat belts on school buses, we clasped the the seat until our fingernails left permanent crescents in the naugahyde, else we were unlikely survive to see Mr. Fickey's Intro to Spanish.

From time to time we wonder whatever happened to Vi Blattner. We suspect she spent her dotage at a home for the nervous. Upon meeting her maker, a terrified Saint Peter undoubtedly gave dear, unstable Vi uncontested entry into paradise, upon threat of being issued a D-form.

xox
WAM

Vi Blattner sez: "Subscribe to this blog's feed or I'll give you a D-form!"

A Letter to Tanya C. Butz, Outraged Virginia Woman

Dear Outraged Virginia Woman,

First, since your name is missing from every account we could find, we've decided your name is Tanya C. Butz.

According to the story, early one morning you were walking your sensitive son to school when you decided to cut through your neighbor's yard. Naturally curious as to what was going on inside his home, you spied Mr. Eric Williamson standing all nekkid and stuff in his kitchen. Then, to be sure you saw what you saw, you crept around to another window and sure enough, there this pervert stood, making coffee in his kitchen, shame hose and filthy bits on full display.

Naturally, you called the cops and Mr. Williamson is now charged with indecent exposure. And we have a few things to say about that.

It seems a gal can't take her young son tiptoeing through the bushes of a neighbor's yard these days without having her eyeballs raped in the butt by all manner of lascivious nakedness. Back in the day, good Christians could go a-peepin' and be greeted only by images of God-fearing folks who had the good taste to remain fully-clothed in the privacy of their own homes. Ms. Butz, we congratulate you not only for keeping your sights trained on Mr. Williamson's swarthy exposed personage, but for circling his house to get a better view, thereby giving your impressionable son a good lesson in spying on our heathen neighbors.

And now, we'd like to address the distastefully exposed Eric Williamson. As scripture tells us, when God made man (and subsequently yanked a rib from his chest to fashion his serpent-fraternizing, fruit-coveting baby maker), He was immediately disgusted by His creation. And that's why Jesus invented the polyester house robe.

You claim when you arose from slumber and ambled to the kitchen to brew some coffee, that it was dark outside and you had no idea a God-fearing neighbor might be skulking about your property. Spare us, sir, your pitiful excuses. For the gentleman who engages in naked coffee-brewing is precisely the sort to download she-male bukkake porn, sacrifice goats at the altar of Beelzebub and sass his mother.

Furthermore, Mr. Williamson, Jesus gets fidgety and nervous when our sin viper isn't safely tucked away within our aquaman underoos. He only allows us to drop our drawers when making uckie-poo or rinsing our oopsie zone (and only when it's absolutely necessary, for although cleanliness is next to Godliness, excessive lathering of one's flesh flute is next to something else entirely).   

So next time you spring from your sweaty mattress after a night of wet-dreaming about pooping on our Christian sensibilities, you'd do well to remember the audience of outraged townsfolk camping outside on your lawn. Put the jewels back in the vault and look into pajamas. Man-pajamas, pervert. Your next door neighbor and her son hardly expect to see you in a see-through Victoria's Secret teddy next time they traipse through your flower bed, peering anxiously through your kitchen window.

xox
WAM

Eric Williamson sez: "I subscribed to this blog's feed so I could read it nekkid."

Olly-Olly-Oxenfree!!

When we sat down today to blog (an verb which sounds like it should involve a magazine and a roll of charmin), we couldn't decide which ass to whup. There's so many to choose from.

There's the classy gal who got drunk and allowed her boyfriend to film her engaging in a little pooch-on-bitch hippity-dippity (note to self: booze, a video camera, and dog-sex are the main incredients for "shame pie"). Later, when her boyfriend threatened to make the video public, she pimped her unwilling underaged daughter to him. One wonders what the woman expects to receive this Mother's Day.

Then there was the case of Ms. Linda Brown, the Ohio woman who woke one day and decided to be a lottery winner. So she rented a stretch limo and headed straight for the mall, where she promised everyone in a particular store she'd foot the bill for their purchases. She learned a valuable life lesson that day: if one wishes to live the life of a lotto winner it's generally a good idea to be one. Because when it was discovered she didn't have two nickles to rub together, the tastefull populace rioted and looted the store so they could get the free stuff they were promised. Stay classy, Ohio.

But no. No, today we've decided to train our cross-hairs on the Heenes. For the better part of Thursday afternoon, Rick Sanchez of CNN could barely contain his glee as the nation (read: cable news) trained its jaundiced eye on what looked to be an air-bourne batch of Jiffy Pop soaring down the front range of Colorado. We all know the story by now: it was believed that a 7-year-old boy named Falcon (why must we name our children after nouns?) had climbed aboard an experimental helium balloon and was performing an unrehearsed solo production of "Around the World in 80 Days." When the thing landed, as suspicious locals poked at it with pitchforks, it was quickly determined that Falcon remained a flightless bird. He'd been hiding in the attic all along.

The first thing to note is the palpable disappointment on the part of the vapid talking heads. Sure, they SAID they were relieved but you KNOW they wished the kid had in fact taken that horrifying journey to 14,000 feet and returned to earth frozen stiff and frightened to death. They could have milked that shizzle for serious ratings. 

Second, if the latest rumours are indeed true, and the Heene's actually cooked up the scenario in order to score a reality television gig, one can't help but admire their chutzpah and creativity. Granted, they had the bad taste to appear not once but twice on a ghastly spectacle called "Wife Swap" (a word of advice to Mrs. Heene: perhaps the fact that your family is so eager to trade you like a pack of bubble gum cards could be mined for a hint or two). But if Kim Kardashian can become a celebrity because of a sex tape depicting Ray J's shame hose disappearing up her oopsie hole, the Heenes may enter the temple of "Hey Everyone! Look at ME!" It's not that exclusive a club. They let anyone in these days (hi, Elizabeth Hasselbeck!).

We frankly don't care. We can proudly say we don't even know what Kate Gosselin's voice sounds like and we want to keep it that way. 

But also, vis-à-vis "balloon boy," we smelled a hoax the minute young Falcon skipped up to reporters. Why? Let's step into the way-back machine, shall we?

One day when we were four years old, Mumsy took us along grocery shopping. Anyone who's ever seen a woman in a grocery store with an under-five knows she was flirting with disaster. Sure enough, as soon as Mumsy turned her back, we'd picked up a pricing gun and marked up an entire aisle of canned goods to $100. When store management complained (unappreciative of their exponentially-increased profit margin), Mumsy hissed at us through her teeth that we were to exit the Food King that instant and wait in our gorgeous faux-wood paneled Chevrolet station wagon so she could finish shopping before spanking our fanny. We obeyed. But instead of waiting in the back seat like a normal child, we thought it might be cute to crawl into the spare tire compartment, where we promptly fell asleep.

We awoke four hours later when the town sheriff discovered us. Teams of cadaver-sniffing dogs had been searching nearby Bear Creek for our bloated corpse. Mother wasn't happy.

We considered it an apt lesson for a woman who sent her four-year-old, unmonitored, to wait in the car. Heavens to betsy, why didn't just she tape a sign to our shirt saying "kidnap me, I'm into butt-sex"? The lesson was lost on her, and spankings ensued for the next two days. She spanked us right there. Then Dad came home and spanked us with a belt. Then Mumsy got to thinking about it the next day, got angry all over again and spanked us some more. Parents are hardly ever happy to discover that a major search and rescue operation was undertaken because of a child's game of hide and seek. 

So when be-dimpled moppet Falcon Heene pranced out of the attic and was greeted with hugs, instead of serving some serious hard time on the "naughty stool" at the very least, we cried "shenanigans."

Hoax? Absolutely. And now the Heenes are facing a butt-load of potential felonious charges.

We can see it now: "Jail Family: The Maximum Security Heenes," premiering this spring on Fox.

xox
WAM

Falcon Heene sez: "My dad said if I play along with his hoax I could subscribe to this blog's feed."

Spamtasm: Whupassa Stuart Masterson Responds to Pastor Paul Ojegbekilo

Like you, dear readers, from time to time WAM's gorgeous spam-box is stuffed to the gills with kindly letters from totally well-meaning Nigerians who are simply DYING to help us deposit a gazillion dollars in our checking account (if we'd just be a dove and provide them with our banking information and social security number). Known as the 419 or "Spanish Prisoner" scam, it's really the oldest trick out there (not counting Madonna). We're not the first to have fun at their expense (Ebola Monkey did it first and best), nor will we be the last.

But our most recent Nigerian business opportunity was so unique we couldn't resist resurrecting one Ms. Whupassa Stuart Masterson to respond to his heart-wrenching and florid query.

You may read the original spam here, in PDF (alas, it's too long to repeat in this post). The short version goes something like this: The Reverend Ojegbekilo of the dazzling Okuhuke Community Church would like us to know that God is busily blessing Nigeria. But while the good reverend is saving simply oodles of negros from the oily bosom of lucifer, for some reason, most of his converts are too old to read normal bibles. Would we care to help him purchase 20 large print King James versions? Oh, and please help his negro orphans. Got it? 

Take it away, Whupassa! 

Dear Reverend Kabuki Bukkake,

Gosh, I was so thrilled to get your email! It's such a coincidence! I just got back from church. Today, Pastor Mike Huckabee (of the Greater Tuscaloosa Pentecostal Church of Signs Appearing) told us that Jesus wants us to spread the gospel to everyone, even negros and rag-heads. Then he handed out the snakes.

I would love to help you buy Bibles for your old people! My mom, bless her heart, is an old person. Last spring she crashed her Dodge Dart into a cow and ever since she thinks she's Eydie Gormé. So now I keep her chained to the couch.

Anywho, I've got lots of money to send. Back in 1993 I got my eye poked out by an excitable IHOP waitress (who had very strong feelings about not putting ketchup on waffles). So I sued and got $50,000! Unfortunately, half of it's tied up right now because a nice man from your country named Buttfungi Cowabunga wrote to me last month because he's trying to get $10 million out of your country (something to do with a dead oil guy), and all he needed was $25,000 and my account information! So soon I'm going to have even more money to send you! Praise Jesus! In the meantime, I'd be happy to send some casseroles. I could send my famous Lime Jello Marshmallow Cottage Cheese Surprise! Or how about my world renowned Weenies-Velveeta-and-Doritos Yum Pie? I made both for our Annual Fourth of July White Power Picnic and they were both great big fat hits!

But I have some questions. First, what kind of Bibles are you giving to your old folks? I don't want to pay for any homo version. If King James was good enough for Jesus, it's good enough for me! Also, how come you don't want Bibles on tape? I have a Bible on tape read by Sarah Palin and it's just super!

Nigeria sounds beautiful. Is it in France? Do you like french fries? I do, especially with maple syrup (but don't tell that to a certain cranky IHOP waitress who shall remain nameless).

Yours in Christ,
Whupassa Stuart Masterson

We sure hope Reverend Ojegbekilo responds. This could be fun.

Pastor Paul Ojegbekilo sez: "Please send money to Nigeria so our orphans can subscribe to this blog's feed."

Introducing: The Confess-o-Matic!!

Confessing is in. It's the thing to do (rehab is SO 2007!). These days it seems you can't swing a dead cat without hitting some celebrity, politician, or chat show host in the midst of a very public mea culpa, dazed spouse at their side, disclosing sordid details about their private lives (which is precisely why we gave up dead cat-swinging for Lent).

It was fun at first; Jimmy Swaggart's tearful I-paid-a-$50-hooker-to-pee-on-me-in-a-Motel-6 "I've sinned against you" speech was hilarious. Likewise, Jim McGreevey's I'm-being-blackmailed-by-a-Jewish-boytoy-and-now-it's-time-to-come-out-to-my-stunned-wife "I'm a gay American" press conference really should be set to music and recorded by Clay Aiken.

But now it's quickly becoming tedious. David Letterman, Mackenzie Phillips, John Ensign, Mark Sanford, Sam Adams, Elliot Spitzer...the list grows daily. Everyone's jumping on the bandwagon without giving the slightest thought as to where the bandwagon's headed. Nor do they seem the least bit concerned about that last shred of good taste being crushed under the bandwagon's cruel wheels. It's like Crocs. 

Cathy-licks, who have never been accused of good taste (see: The Blessed Virgin's frequent appearance in chalupas, the pope, et al.), at least confine their confessions to where they belong; in a dark closet, whispered to a cross-dressing pedophile. We're begging future confessors to reconsider the press conference. We'd really rather not be subjected to the inevitable, constant loop on CNN.

Instead, why not simply fill out our New Confess-o-Matic™ form below and fax it to Wolf Blitzer? The world will thank you.

THE CAN O' WHUP-ASS CONFESS-O-MATIC™

I, (your name here), after a great deal of:

1. prayer,
2. crying,
3. advice from my attorney,
4. gonorrhea,
5. subpoenas,

Have decided that the time has come to disclose:

1. The woman trapped inside my body.
2. The eggplant wedged inside my rectum.
3. My torrid affair with sensitive yet virile Brazilian florist named Cadela Feroz.
4. The subterranean lair I've constructed under my house, where I keep a growing brood of albino incest babies who feed on worms and were born without eyes.
5. My Celine Dion record collection.

The burden of keeping this horrible secret for so long has led to a shame-spiral, culminating in an unfortunate incident where I:

1. Eloped with a cocker spaniel.
2. Banged a retarded broad.
3. Ran naked through the Piggly Wiggly singing "Put On Your Sunday Clothes" from "Hello, Dolly!"
4. Subscribed to Esquire.
5. Got wasted and repeatedly screamed "F*GGOTS!" during my keynote address at a GLAAD-sponsored convention of Liza Minnelli impersonators.

I would like to apologize to my long-suffering:

1. Wife
2. Fans and/or constituents
3. Breasts
4. Pet leprechaun
5. Stable of randy rent boys

For causing so much:

1. Pain.
2. Embarrassment.
3. Bowel obstruction.
4. Sperm stains.
5. Fibro Myalgia.

I hope everyone will find it in their heart to:

1. Forgive me.
2. Re-elect me.
3. Put my publicist on speed-dial.
4. Overlook my hobby of giving hand-jobs to passed out alcoholics under the viaduct.
5. Give me one last rusty trombone in the men's room, for old-time's sake.

In the meantime, during this time of healing, I ask that you respect my family's privacy so that we can:

1. Prepare for our appearance on Oprah.
2. Ink a book deal.
3. Bicker and hurl expensive breakables at each other.
4. Consume the last of the human flesh still cluttering our freezer.
5. Have one last S&M felching orgy before setting things right with The Lord. 

Thank you, and:

1. May God bless America.
2. Does anyone have any crank?
3. Signed copies of my memoir are available in the lobby for $35. 
4. Remember to follow me on Twitter.
5. Seriously. Does anyone have any crank? Just a little bit? 

xox
WAM

David Letterman sez: "Subscribing to this blog's feed is 1 through 8 on my personal top ten list."

Mamma Will Provide (PLUS: Post-its of Friendly Concern!)

When we arrived in NYC in 1987 to pursue our ill-advised dream of becoming a renowned classical actor, we experienced a period of extreme poverty (who saw THAT coming??). We were reduced to jumping turnstiles, and our daily sustenance consisted of a banana in the morning and either a slice of pizza or a box of kraft macaroni and cheese in the evening. One afternoon we were loitering in Tantalus Deli on East 55th, trying to decide what delectable morsel to purchase with our last remaining 68 cents. Suddenly, we spied a hundred dollar bill on the floor in the beer aisle. That night we had the most delicious pastrami on rye ever.

Likewise, having suckled at the bitter teat of Unemployment Insurance for a year, the milk recently ran dry. The very day the payments ceased, we found ourselves hired by a prominent financial news agency, and now hold full press credentials ("smell YOU Nancy Drew!" we hear you utter under your putrid mentos-and-decaf breath).

But listen, bitches; Mamma will provide. In the darkest moment, something in the universe clicks; the planets align. We blink, and suddenly we're enjoying a delicious pastrami on rye. Burp!

Now that we're once again a respectable (shut up) working member of society, we've found little time to spare. And this, our baby, has suffered. Yet COWA remains our secret crush. Posts will come with more frequency in the future, and we shall ruthlessly whup the asses of those who deserve it until our computer crashes, our hands cramp, or Yahweh yanks us home to Jesus whilst smiting the internet because of Ashton Kucher's sophomoric twittering. We're back.

With that in mind, there have been numerous items of late with blatant "whup my ass" signs taped to their fannies. We've been chomping at the bit to open a can. What follows is the Reader's Digest version of what we've been simply DYING to say:

Dear Mackenzie Phillips:

When obnoxious divorcee Anne Romano relocated her two girls (Valerie Bertinelli—future hair band frau, current fat person—and thou) to the urban shangri-la of Indianapolis, who expected her oldest daughter to be arrested at airports with a kilo of horse wedged up her oopsie hole? Worse still, Schneider hardly foresaw the day when Julie Romano would hit the talk show circuit yammering endlessly about her icky 10-year affair with her father. I'll say it to your face Mack. It's tacky.

What gal hasn't accidentally done the the hippity-dippity with pops for ten years, ultimately aborting his misbegotten inbred womb-booger because hubby wouldn't approve? We're so glad you've decided to launch your extra-classy "I boned pops and all I got was an aborted fetus and a book deal" publicity tour and press junket. We knew you were bad news when you ruined Harrison Ford's evening in "American Graffiti." Do us a favor, take a job as a second shift Stuckey's hostess and slither away into obscurity. Thanks.

xox
WAM

***

Dear Prisscilla Mechell,

Our first impulse is to beg you to run a spell-check on your unfortunate first name.

Beyond that, as we know, a woman just isn't a woman unless a fetus is kicking her abdomen from within her fruitful womb. So when your ample tummy rudely ejected your woebegone uterus spew, you sensibly decided not to tell anyone. Instead, you faked the remainder of your pregnancy and kidnapped a neighbor's infant. Then, to remake the poor thing in your ghastly image, you shaved its noggin and tarted it up under layers of Mary Kay cosmetics. Upon reconsidering the wisdom of those actions, you deposited the wailing diaper-filler in a convenient dumpster, where it was later found by the authorities gurgling under half-eaten chalupas and curbed dog poop. 

We see absolutely nothing wrong with your actions. What does a modern gal want with someone else's tarted up baby? To hell with it. Let's go shopping!

xox
WAM

P.S. To Prisscilla's miscarried fetus: we congratulate you on your foresight with respect to your erstwhile mother-to-be's parenting skills. Better luck next time.

***

Dear Mayor Eric J. Brewer,

Okay, so being Mayor of East Cleveland is pretty much like being crowned King of poop. Sure, it's nice to be King of anything, but East Cleveland? What's second prize?

Howev, if one is running for public office, it's a good idea not to prance about in women's lingerie, snapping nasty pics of ourselves looking like a chorus girl in the all-crack-whore production of Chicago (a production we'd quite enjoy, come to think of it).

Bitch, it's like this; one does not pose for pictures in corsets and panty hose like an unholy hybrid of Betty Page and Flip Wilson if one yearns for a gig in the political sphere. For not only are you a freakin mess (we beg you to investigate proper skin care, pubic mowing, lipo, hot oil treatments and drastic rhinoplasty), you are now known as Ms. Mayor Nasty Pants. Can you really govern dazzling East Cleveland when everyone and their Facebook friends know you're wearing Victoria's Secret's entire "tranny-mess" line underneath your JC Penney double breasted seersucker? We suggest a new career. Perhaps you could give hand-jobs at truck stops or join the gals on The View, or something.

xox
WAM 

***

Dear Ms. Davina Warren:

First, let us dance on the precipice of political incorrectness by saying that the black bitches have ALL the hair. We have seen weaves that gave us vertigo and/or motion sickness. We have seen bitches who are so braided and bobby-pinned their architecturally unstable hair looks like exploding turkeys emerging from chocolate wedding cakes.

So we quite enjoyed the story about how you grabbed hold of a bitch's weave and held it for ransom whilst wielding scissors. And now you find yourself charged with aggravated assault and false imprisonment. 

Chanda. Chanda-Chanda-Chanda. As anyone from Tootie on "Facts of Life" to Beyonce (and her team of nervous wig-wranglers) will attest, one simply does not take a bitch's weave hostage and expect to live to see Tyler Perry's next cinematic masterpiece. Especially considering the fact that, judging by your photo, weaves have waged the cruelest war on thou; for you look like the second-string Big-Mac-assembler at the Tuscaloosa McDonald's.

Perhaps you intended to purloin gal's locks, to pirate her braids in order to supplant your woefully inadequate hairdo.  

xox
WAM

Julie Romano sez: "I'm totally addicted to my subscription to this blog's feed"